


Understanding

by aurvandil



Category: Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Conniving Bastards, F/M, Hand Jobs, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-04
Updated: 2012-04-04
Packaged: 2017-11-03 00:42:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/375157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurvandil/pseuds/aurvandil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Armand and Claudia have a lot in common.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Understanding

**Author's Note:**

> Idek how this happened. It's a mad experiment. I sorta disregarded the part about vampires being unable to have sex.  
> Oh and, don't torch me, the lady's more than old enough to know what she wants.

«Mademoiselle Claudia is here.»

The grinning face of one of the actors poked into the room, the rest of his body remaining hidden behind the heavy door. Armand looked at him sharply.

“Then let her in,” he enunciated.

The grin immediately vanished. “Monsieur.” The white face retreated behind the door, and a few seconds later, Claudia entered the room. Armand was poised by the desk, closing the book he’d been reading, and gave her a polite smile.

“Good evening. I hope the actors gave you no trouble?”

She shrugged. “They are easily ignored.”

Her tone was not quite convincing, but he nodded all the same, passing her to lock and bolt the door. “I’m afraid you won’t find Louis here this evening… I haven’t seen him since yesterday.”

She shook her head. “Thank you, but I came to speak with you alone.”

He managed with a small effort to refrain from raising his eyebrows, and instead showed her to one of the two chairs in front of the fireplace.

“And how may I help you?” he asked once they were seated.

“That’s just it.” Her words were perfectly modulated to a tone of confidence. A little too perfectly. “I came to ask a large favour.”

His silence waited for her to continue. After a couple seconds she seemed to come to a decision, and began to speak.

“You have no doubt, like the members of your little troupe, noticed that this –” She gestured subtly to her own body – “Is not my true age. If I had been mortal, I should now be more than seventy years old.” Her tone was very business-like. Armand nodded.

“I have never – and will never – live a full life,” she continued. “Lestat and Louis have bereft me of that opportunity. Not intentionally, granted, but that matters little. There are many things I will never experience, things which mortals take for granted. Things which I am sure that even you and Louis –” a sharp glance – “will experience to a fuller extent than myself. I have tried to come to terms with the idea of a life spent in solitude, cut off from all warmth but that which is given to a child – tepid, condescending care. But I have found – I know, now, without a doubt – that I cannot abide an eternity without any kind of passion.” She drew in a breath.

“I have observed other people’s love, other people’s infatuation, other people’s lust, for over fifty years. And with the exception of the odd twisted individual, nobody, not even other vampires, not even Lestat, polyamorous as he is… has dared to see me in the same light. What I ask of you is quite simple: one night. One evening, as a woman. A few hours in which I do not have to be constantly reminded of my own shortcomings.”

Armand’s expression was so neutral that it was frozen, in an attempt to hide a deep confusion. “Sexual pleasure?” he finally asked, almost convinced that he’d somehow misunderstood. Claudia smiled a little. She seemed to be amused. Finally he found the right question. “Why are you asking this of me?”

“Because I think that you are one of very few in this world – possibly the only one – who might be inclined to consent.”

He couldn’t refrain from expressing his genuine surprise. “And you’d risk leaving something which matters so much to you in the hands of a person who, by his very immoral nature, stands out as a likely candidate?”

Now there was no doubt that she was laughing privately at him. “Don’t flatter yourself. Evil, or goodness for that matter, has nothing to do with it. What I see in you is rather a certain… pragmatism. An amorality. You care not a damn for God or the Devil. You’re utterly stripped of Catholic guilt. You live for the immanent, like I do.” Armand nodded slowly, beginning to see her logic. “And more importantly, I know that you see the reality of what I am. You see _me_.”

Now his eyebrows did go up. “How can you be so certain?”

“Why else would you work so hard to be rid of me? You want me out of the picture. And it’s not because you want to be away from the prying eyes of a child, oh no. You see me. Most likely, you see yourself in me, as well.”

A small smile tugged at his mouth almost against his will. “Say that’s true. Why would I help you, then?”

“Quite simply this: If you do me this favour – release me from this one obsession – then I promise to leave the city as soon as the journey can be prepared, with an easy mind. I will leave him to you. And may God help you both.”

Armand frowned. “You’re willing to give him up?”

“In exchange for this, yes. You are, quite likely, my only chance.”

“I see.” To stop his mind reeling, he focused on the particulars. “And when were you planning for this to take place?”

“As soon as possible.”

“No desire to remain longer in the city?” He couldn’t resist.

In the silence, faint whoops could be heard from the troupe upstairs. Her answer had a very final ring.

“No.”

Armand rose from his chair and leaned over hers. “Tonight?”

“Excellent.” She met his gaze effortlessly, calmly.

“Do you trust me?” he asked, while gently tilting her chin upwards.

“I trust you to know that I can make your life a hell.”

He smiled, nodded once, and appeared to study her a moment. One hand reached behind her head and pulled out the ribbon that had been holding her hair back.

“A golden lady,” he murmured. “You remind me of someone.”

  
\----

  
With a movement that seemed almost inevitable, he bent down and kissed her on the mouth. His hand was still tangled in her hair; it pulled a little as he moved her head backwards. She didn’t mind it – it was a manageable sort of pain. The kiss lasted longer than she’d expected, stretched and grew until it had become something other than just the sealing of a deal. Armand had a soft mouth, but he used it demandingly. Almost as though he couldn’t resist.

The first kiss became two and three. When they finally pulled away from each other in an unnecessary but reflexive gasp for air, he was slightly out of breath, just like her. She tried to hide it. He didn’t bother.

Before he lifted her up and carried her – bridal style, not on his hip, the way Louis sometimes did – he politely asked her permission. She saw no reason to refuse, and thereby accentuate the height difference between them on the short walk across the floor. His hands were considerably smaller than both Lestat’s and Louis’, she thought somewhat absently as he carried her to the bed and laid her down on the pillows. She felt a certain satisfaction at the thought that she’d calculated his reactions so perfectly – that the similarities between had them quite rightly turned out to be the incentive that made him say yes.

His fingers carefully unlaced her boots while he kneeled on the bed at her feet. He took his time, almost seemed to be enjoying it. When he’d placed her shoes next to the bed he took her hands in his and gently pulled off both her gloves, placing them in the same spot. Then he lifted one hand to his mouth. He wasn’t looking at her; his eyes were fastened to her hand. Slowly, very softly, he kissed her fingertips – index finger, middle finger – and then her palm… he turned her hand over and kissed her between two knuckles. The touch of his cool hands and soft mouth was deliciously intimate.

She closed her eyes. Armand was absolutely appealing, but he was too similar to herself. He pretended, so well that she could barely see him. So she replaced his effortless acting with Louis’ warring impulses, the small frown line between his eyebrows.

The illusion only lasted for a moment. Louis wouldn’t have kissed her the way Armand was now – on the inside of her wrist, down her arm. Almost sucking. Short flick of the tongue over her pulse. Armand lifted his head when she looked at him, his hair hanging into his face, like a red curtain around dark Slavic eyes and a red mouth.

She sat up a little. Immediately, he leaned forward and began to unbutton her dress, peeling the silk off her shoulders and kissing the skin as soon as it was revealed – as if it were somehow necessary. His hands moved gently up and down her arms; he bent his head and kissed her throat – warm breath, wet mouth, his soft hair tickling her. She drew in a slightly shaky breath; he smiled – she could feel it against her jugular. His mouth remained where it was, on her throat – now down by her collarbone, now up under her jaw; kiss, lick, a tiny harmless bite, his lips sucking at her skin.

The reaction of her body was surprising. She had never done anything like this before – Lestat had given her quick, hard kisses on the mouth and then fled – and the heightened sensitivity which came with immortality was beginning to make itself known. She felt warm, knew herself to be flushed. Armand’s hands were busily lacing and buttoning and hitching her dress off her – finally she felt her corset loosening, and he deftly freed her of the huge mass of silk and pulled away a little to kiss her on the mouth again. This time his tongue slid against her own, smoothly, warmly, insistently.

She was surprised by how well he simulated desire. His eyes when he’d looked at her had been – there was no other word for it – heated. And now… one of his hands glided down her thigh, on top of the adult petticoat she insisted on, towards her knee, and _now_ it met bare skin, and… he was still fully dressed. She decided to take this as a challenge, a friendly game, and smiled a little and ducked away from his kiss to unbutton his waistcoat. He only laughed lowly and made no objection, shrugging his shoulders to shake off the garment once she was done. She did the same thing with his shirt. 

It helped; she didn’t feel so exposed anymore. And his torso was beautiful. Simply the way his long hair slid over his bare shoulders when he leaned forward was fascinating. His waist was so narrow; his shoulders somewhat boyishly bony, his throat elegant like a woman’s. His chest was hairless. The upper arms had some muscle, but they were the muscles of a fencer and a dancer, not a labourer; and the hands and wrists could have belonged to Madeleine.

Yes, this had been a good idea. They fit together, him and her. The incomplete ones. The failed experiments. Little demon children who attracted violence and perversion wherever they went.

Armand’s hand was curled around one of her calves, slowly moving up towards the knee again. Now his fingertips tickled the back of her knee. She couldn’t help a slight twitch. His mouth smiled behind his curtain of hair, the fingertips continuing upwards, his hand now on the outside of her thigh and slowly drawing her petticoat upwards.

A sudden shameful impulse made her want to draw away, abandon the entire project. But Armand kissed her again, and his hand gently kneaded her thigh, and it was so tempting. He’d turned the wick of the oil lamp almost all the way down, and the room was half in darkness, the door was locked and bolted, the bed was luxurious, and she could almost pretend she was a woman with a lover.

“Close your eyes,” Armand whispered. Obedience was almost automatic, and she didn’t think about it until petticoat and bloomers were both gone. He gently laid her down against the pillows and leaned over her. There was a sound of wood – perhaps a drawer – and then a slight clicking sound. Just as she was about to open her eyes, his palm slid up the top of her thigh – and then down on the inside – and then his mouth was there again on hers, and his hand was between her legs, one finger stroking her, and it was completely slippery – oil, surely, how ingenious, she should have considered that she herself wouldn’t be able to – and then she forgot to think.

Armand knew what he was doing. His fingers were steady, sure, not too quick or too rough, but eager. She took a couple of seconds to realize that he was murmuring against her throat.

“My golden lady… you’re the colours of a summer sky. _But thy eternal summer shall not fade_ …” His voice was low, deeper than usual. Not as smooth. Could it be arousal? It sounded like it. The thought made something tremble inside her.

“ _Fair as the moon_ …” He rubbed her a little more firmly, and kissed her neck. She could feel her heartbeat, both in her throat and between her legs. “ _Clear as the sun… and as terrible as an army with banners_ ,” he whispered and kissed a long line from her jaw down to her clavicle. His free hand crept up her body – over her hip, her side, her ribs – and stroked her chest. She felt ashamed for a brief moment, but then it was as though her nerves suddenly awoke, and sent a tingling straight through her which broke, wave-like, between her legs. Her thighs gave a very light twitch, and every time he touched that one point where all sensation had become centred, it happened again.

All of a sudden she realised that her knees were gently knocking against Armand’s sides; that he was kneeling between her legs. She kept her eyes closed and pictured them – a young man, late in his teens, and herself at the same age, with long elegant legs and breasts which he could roll in his hands, and his hand _there_ , rubbing at her mercilessly, while her breath came faster and little electric jolts spread through her entire body. Armand’s voice washed over her, like music, or a clear summer wind.

“ _A garden enclosed is my sister_ ,” he said lowly. “ _A spring shut up… a fountain sealed_ …”

He read poetry well. She thought very vaguely that he’d probably been trained in it at some point. He made it sound like honesty.

“ _Behold, thou art fair_ ,” he whispered right by her ear, in a tone like a command, and she forgot herself and opened her eyes – he pointed to a mirror at the far end of the room, and before she knew what she was doing she’d cast a glance at it – and she knew, really, that it couldn’t be true, that this had to be another of Armand’s illusions, but in the mirror she could see them, on the bed, a young man and… a woman, with huge golden hair and slim legs, and… she couldn’t stop watching them, the way the man’s hand moved, and the way he leaned forward and kissed her breast, sucked at a nipple – oh God – and how her spine arched to come closer his mouth, and how her hips lifted every time his fingers stroked her, and how obscene she looked with her legs spread…

The next time he rubbed her hard she moaned, she couldn’t help it, it was so terribly arousing. The image flickered and she hurriedly closed her eyes, afraid that it would vanish, and Armand made a tiny sound and let his fingers glide lightning fast and ruthless over just the right spot – and then he bit her, hard, on the throat, and it felt as though something inside her exploded, the nerves twisted, pure _sensation_ made her entire body spasm. She was almost uncertain whether it felt good or painful, but at the same time there was no doubt, and pure knife-sharp pleasure radiated in great shocks from his mouth on her throat and that one point between her thighs, where Armand was still drawing every last second of climax out of her with his fingertips.

For a few seconds the world consisted only of sensation. Sight and hearing fell away, and it wasn’t until later that she realised they’d both made sound. She wasn’t aware that she’d closed her eyes, for everything that could be seen was irrelevant. There was only Armand, locked onto her jugular and pulling at every single vein… and Armand touching her… and then she noticed that his hair had fallen into her face, and she slowly began to come up to the surface, and remembered that it could be even better, she could… And then she’d done it. Had opened her eyes, gently stroked his hair away from his throat, and bitten down.

Oh, lord above.

He was… so strong, and so old, and it was raw power and raw light which spread through her whole body and filled her up, galvanized her, turned her into granite, invincible, alive. She sensed more than heard him give a little moan, but he made no resistance. Images raced through her head, far too quickly for her to be able to separate any one from the others. She forced herself to drink more slowly, and the flood solidified into voices and words and snatches of music, buildings with oriental windows, a great bell tower, houses built directly on the water, a rose in a vase, the organ thundering in the theatre, something which looked like the ghost of a little boy, a snow covered landscape, a monstrously detailed painting covering an entire wall, a man, no, white face, long hair, sky blue eyes, a vampire, he was smiling like a saint…

For a frightening second everything went black, and then she realised that she was merely alone in her own head. Reality materialised around her when she reopened her eyes. She was still lying on the bed, and Armand was sitting next to her. He had his shirt back on and looked immaculate. His face was the same as always, and yet it seemed inexplicably changed. He wore a neutral expression, but still she couldn’t shake the feeling that he looked unhappy. It made no sense.

She began to get dressed, with slow, almost sleepy movements, enjoying being able to do so without her customary urge to hurry and cover herself up. Armand said nothing, but out of the corner of her eye she saw him putting his waistcoat on. He waited to speak until they were both fully dressed and looking presentable, as though nothing had happened.

“Was this what you wanted?”

“Is your part of the agreement fulfilled, you mean? Yes. And I will keep mine.” She bowed her head lightly, not quite able to keep her voice free of irony.

“Actually…” He stopped himself. “Are you satisfied? Are you… happy?”

She looked at him, confusedly. His face had something rigid about it. “You never promised to make me happy.”

“No. No, you’re right. I didn’t.”

“I will leave Paris as soon as I am ready,” she said with finality. This conversation ought to be over. It wasn’t going as she’d imagined it. He only nodded.

“I will of course not object to any correspondence between you,” he said abruptly.

“Very generous of you, monsieur, but I was never the letter writing type.” Even more final. He would either have to speak plainly, or not at all.

“Then I bid you farewell,” he said at last. “And I wish you good luck.” He bowed as if to a lady.

“And the same to you.” She had gotten all the way to the door before it became clear to her that she couldn’t leave. Something was holding her back.

“It will never work, you must realise.” She didn’t know why she had to say it, but it seemed so important that he hear this, that he realise it completely. She turned and met his eyes. “You two cannot… it won’t last.”

She could see his spine stiffen. “What do you mean?”

“You’re not whole.”

“I love him.”

Her mouth twisted up into a smile. “I know _that_. You love him like I love him. But we can’t love, you and I. We feel nothing.”

“You feel pain,” he objected, but his confidence was all but gone, he no longer sounded as though he knew all the secrets of the world.

She acknowledged his point with a small nod. “Yes,” she said. “That I do. I feel pain for my own losses. But I feel nothing for his losses, and I feel nothing for the world’s losses, and neither do you. When the proverbial sparrow falls dead to the ground, you shed no tears. And that is what makes us similar. And that is why it will never work.”

“I don’t have a choice.” He spoke through clenched teeth. In the end, she thought perhaps she liked him better when he was the cold god.

“I know that too,” she said lowly.

He crossed the room so quickly that she registered only the flutter of his clothes before he was standing next to her, holding open the door. “Good night, mademoiselle.” His eyes looked enormous in his face. He looked like a child.

“Good night, Armand.”

She left.

**Author's Note:**

> The quotations are from Shakespeare's Sonnet 18 and the Song of Solomon. Because Armand (or the author) is a walking cliché.


End file.
